


Unsteady Feet

by biswholocked



Series: JWP 2015 [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Deductions, Drug Use, First Meetings, Florida, Gen, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Pre-Series, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4384982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Florida doesn't treat Sherlock kindly.</p><p>Until he meets Mrs. Hudson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsteady Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day twenty of JWP. The prompt was to "put something or someone American in your entry, or do an American-based pastiche". I thought, and thought, and finally decided upon this, because who doesn't love to see Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's friendship?
> 
> Warnings for drug use and mentions of domestic abuse.

Air. Heavy, pushing down, stumble in his steps _humid_. Stand straight, sway, _focus_ look behind, look for Mycroft -- no, not Mycroft. Minion. Brown hair, doe eyes, heels. _Searching for you, she is. Keep walking._ Alcohol swims in his brain, the thump of leftover bass in his blood, the uneven sidewalk makes his feet clumsy. Red light, stop. Press button, green man, go go go, quickly (slowly) cross the street, keep in between the lines. Horn blares, he covers his ears, _why is everything so loud? Make it stop stop stop._

A dim, waterlogged memory floats up. Seb’s bleach-white smile. _C’mon, Miami’s got the best scene in Florida._ The sharp, raw feeling of cocaine as he snorts it up his nose. _How much? How much?_ He tries to access his mind...thingie, the thing with high roofs, facts, tries to count the number of plastic baggies he opened and the number of lines he made. Fails. The doors are closed, now.

 _Where am I?_ Look around, scan; nothing familiar. All old, slightly shabby houses, painted colors that hurt his eyes, even in the dark. Headlights pass. _Head down. Could be her. Don’t want to go back_. Eyelids drop, he loses a second of time, comes back disoriented, heart slamming. Must find shelter.

There, bright ball. _Porchlight_. Trips his way closer, slumps against the side of the house. Shaking arm hand fingers reach out, find the doorbell, press down. _Ding dong_. His feet fail him, body slips down the wall and lands in a heap on doorstep. Welcome mat, scratchy against his cheek. Vision dives, goes black. _No no, come back_. It doesn’t. He loses consciousness to the sound of something ( _chain? lock? both?_ ) scraping open.

**<..... >**

Wakes, take stock. His eyes open blearily. Unfamiliar location; roaring lion headache; muscles that have gone through a rack, stretched and sore. Still, alive. An uncertain but (mostly) welcome outcome.

He’s on a leather sofa. His legs peel off, sweaty. Looks down. _Not my clothes._ He’s dressed in a ratty vest, loose pants, socks. Someone’s taken the time to strip him, then redress for comfort. _Interesting_. He rubs his eyes, looks around; charming, outdated wallpaper, old but good quality furniture. Pictures on the bookcase, smiling people. Family, likely. Of one thing, he is sure: this does not carry the taste of Mycroft. _Who would take in a collapsed junkie on their front step?_

Faint smell of potatoes. Stomach makes itself known. He stands, or try to; legs weak and balance shaky, but he manages to cross the room. Props himself up against the doorframe. Doesn’t expect the door to open.

“Oh!” Woman, mid to upper fifties. Dyed hair, tasteful makeup, simple clothing. Wedding ring. He stares, tries to figure her out. She is speaking.

“...so glad you’re up. I wasn’t sure you’d make it for the first couple hours, but by four you’d evened out a bit. Good thing, too, isn’t it? Oh and your clothes are drying, don’t you worry. Now, come along, I’ve made some brekkie, and you need it, young man! Look at you, nearly skin and bones.” She takes one of his hands, pats it, tugs him along with a surprisingly strong grip. _Uses hand lotion, flower scented, bruises around the wrist. Interesting. Why? They’re recent, perhaps the husband?_ She chatters on, voice soothing; he only hits upon the reason why when they’ve reached the kitchen.

“You’re British.”

She gives him a funny but nurturing look and shepherds him over to a chair. “Yes, dear. Moved here five years ago, I did, but the accent hasn’t let itself go. You are too, I see. London?”

“Yes,” he replies, biting back the obviously. A plate appears in front of him, eggs with fried potatoes, bangers. A cup of orange juice is set down to his left.

“It’s been ages since I’ve seen London,” she says wistfully. “We get the rain here, but Miami’s no match for London’s charm. The humidity!” She tuts and shakes her head, sits down with her own plate. He picks up his fork when she arches a brow in his direction. The first bite of potatoes explodes on his tongue and suddenly, he is shoveling food into his mouth while looking around the kitchen, learning what he can. _Husband who’s often out of town. Shady business. Abuser, almost certainly. She gardens, he drinks._

“Oh, but where are my manners?” she exclaims. “I’m Martha Hudson.”

He blinks, takes in this woman who is so wonderfully intriguing, who picked him up last night and pulled him inside, who dressed him in her husband’s clothes and made him breakfast. A housewife that puts up young men who appear at her door, high as a kite. A bag of curiosities, Mrs Hudson is. His tongue yearns to ask her questions he can’t deduce the answers to. _Why do you stay with him? Do you know about his side activities? Why did you take me in? Why did you leave London? Would you like to go back? How did you carry me?_

Curbs the desire. _Don’t ruin the best thing that’s happened to you since you came to this damn city._ Reminds himself of her usefulness, that he can hide here from Mycroft’s prying eyes. (Knows that’s not the real reason he holds back.) He takes another bite. Chews, swallows, smiles. Reach out a hand to take hers, presses his lips to the back of her fingers. (It’s instinct, with her. Odd.)

“Sherlock Holmes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/ con crit always welcome! This is the first time I've ever written Mrs. Hudson in any significant way; it was fun, but also kind of hard to get a handle on her voice.


End file.
